


what's buried underneath (where I am)

by solitariusvirtus, tenten_d



Series: in this we were different [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Bigamy, Character Death, Child Death, Drabble Collection, F/M, Lover - Freeform, Meereen, Multi, Old Valyria, Politics, Slight Incest, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:18:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenten_d/pseuds/tenten_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valyria expands, conquering the world. As it spans continents many of it more prominent inhabitants try to take the power for their own. Close friend of the King, Rhaegar Targaryen is sent to Meereen, to ensure the cooperation of the province with the help of his kin, House Galare.</p><p>or </p><p>AU! The five times a woman can do nothing to prevent a tragedy and the one time she can. Lyanna Stark finds herself the unwilling pawn in a game of power. Love and intrigue build her world, and one wrong move could see it crumble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. out of joint

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Birdy's "The District Sleeps Alone Tonight".
> 
> What you are about to read is an AU in which Lyanna awesomely becomes one of the most powerful women of her time. This may contain some law-related references. They will be signaled at the end of the chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

It is her father that sells her after her eldest brother’s betrayal of the Great Masters. All is done in order to appease them, and Lyanna should not feel anything but honoured. “They have sons, young men in need of a partner. Bend the will of one, and we will be safe. Can you do this, for your brothers and me? And if not, for yourself.”

For herself. Lyanna almost laughs at that – why would she wish to become the mistress of some cruel, young tyrant? “You could just sell me and be done with it.” The words leave her mouth without her meaning to release them. A flush takes over her face. But she doesn’t not back down, it is too late for that. “I will not condemn myself with my own hands. If it is your will to offer me to pay for your son’s disgrace then at least have the decency to do it yourself.”

Rickard’s face takes an ashen colour. “You would rather that we all died? Do you want to see your brothers torn by beasts in the arena? And when they crucify you, shall you take comfort in those words you’ve uttered? They will not give you a clean death.”

Of course they wouldn’t. Lyanna knows that. There are so many reasons for which they won’t just nail her to the cross and leave her to rot in the sun. Because she’s a woman. Because if they sell her to a pleasure house they’ll have both profit and entertainment. Which is worse? To be mistress to one man, or to be forced to entertain many more? There is a chance that she will find a kind man interested in having a lover. Surely not all men wish ill on their women. And in nay case she won’t be a slave. Little better – mistress – but not a slave. After a time, when the man tires of her she might convince him to emancipate her.

“Would that Brandon gave back the money.” Her brother, the oldest of them, Brandon, had been getting in trouble for as long as Lyanna can remember. Sometimes it is replaceable goods, sometimes father bribes the guards to look the other way, sometimes he settles his eldest’s debts. But not this time. This time it falls to her. “You should have taken your hand to him a long time ago, father. Look what he’s done now.”

“Forgive an old man his weakness, daughter. But Brandon is as much my child as you. Eddard and Benjen too. I must think of all. Which is why I ask that you do this.” Leathery skin and trembling fingers, the father catches the daughter’s hand, before he falls to his knees. “You may choose the one you go to, they have sworn so.”

What little pity still resides in her heart forces Lyanna’s head to bow. Brandon deserves to visit the gladiator pit. It is on account of his own foolishness that he’s landed them in this situation. But Benjen and Eddard, they have nothing to do with this. Neither does father. “When I am released, will you have me back in this house?”

In their world a woman without a home may be claimed by any man that takes interest. Lyanna thinks it is quite enough that she has to play the lover of an unknown man even for a year. This is her sentence. She won’t abandon her family, but she needs to know they will not abandon her either. 

“You have my word on it,” Rickard agrees. Perhaps there is kindness in his voice, perhaps not, Lyanna cares not. It is only important that after this ordeal she may never be bothered again. 

Meereen has been kind to her family for more than a thousand years. Mayhap this is payment for that kindness. Of Westerosi descent, Lyanna remembers that in the stories the Starks were kings and queens. But the Valyrian Empire expanded even to what was once the home of her ancestors. Now the only think that remains are those tales and the paleness of their skin that even the harsh sun of the East could not remove in those thousand of years. Loss has visited too. Broken crowns, but ever filling coffers. Taken titles, but a new life. It all mingles and the good outweighs the bad. It shall be so now too. 

Lyanna has only to wait after her father lets it be known that he has agreed to the Masters’ plan. Again, it is not at all uncommon for the daughters of the small aristocracy to find position as lovers of notable, influent men – and sometimes women too – as the practice is not prohibited, nor frowned upon. She is intended to take the first man who inquires.

As luck – or its malignant counterpart – would have it, Grazdan zo Galare finds his way into her father’s house. “It is good that you have decided to follow my advice.” His voice chills the blood in Lyanna’s veins. “Is she your daughter?” He inspects her as if she were a piece of meat. “My nephew is to visit. I thought to provide some entertainment for him.”

“My daughter will be honoured.” Lyanna refusal to agree earns her a harsh look. “When would you have her come to you?”

“Ah, I’ll send my palanquin for her. You know which one it is, I trust.” Grazdan's jape does not escape Lyanna’s notice. Alas she bites her lip to keep from cursing him. He is a Great Master and her family has enough problems already. “What say you, maiden?”

“I am beyond pleased to be of service.” Her demure mien is perfect company to such words.

“As you should,” the man approves. “I do believe this folly of your son’s may be forgotten very fast indeed, Stark. Have her dressed in the clothes which I will send her. My nephew must be moved by you, maiden, I shall accept no less.“

“He will be moved, Great Master,” Lyanna speaks, offering assurance even as her mind and heart disagree. She can not know what will follow. “I promise you he shall.”


	2. method to his madness

He rides his dragon – both as warning and as a show of power. Rhaegar gives them reason to fear the Emperor’s wrath with his mere presence. But sometimes terror is not quite enough to keep the beast quiet. “Uncle,” he greets the head of House Galare.

“Nephew.” There is not a trace of warmth in the older man’s voice. “Come, the journey must have tired you.” That is to say they will speak of politics later. For now it is time to rest. “You will not be disturbed by any. A servant will knock upon the doors at mealtime.” The invitation is clear. Rhaegar nods. There is little point in delaying. 

The nobleman doesn’t know what he was expecting, but the young woman in his chambers is not it. Poisonous snakes, maybe. An armed slave, of course. But a woman? Rhaegar’s eyes mist over. This is a mistake he will not repeat. The girl stands to greet him, her naked shoulders hiding behind the curtain of dark hair that falls over them. They think he’s learned nothing of his past folly. “You may leave,” he dismissed her coldly, but he cannot deny her loveliness.

Her face falls and panic sets in her eyes. Does she fear punishment? “I will tell your master you’ve served me well. Now go to your business.” He won’t be fooled by the skills of an actress. And yet there is a sort of desperation in those dark orbs that pierces him. Rhaegar turns around, going to the window. “Away from me!” his sharp command jolts her into action.

Instead of departing – as Rhaegar wills her to – the woman falls to her knees, now truly frightened. “Do not send me away, I beg you, my lord. Do not send me away.”

Rhaegar consider her for a moment. “You doubt my word?” He has already promised no harm will come to her. That may change if she continues on so stubbornly. 

“Mercy,” she pleads, her eyes staring into his as he faces her again. “Mercy.” Two long steps and he stands before her. She grabs at his outer robes, fingers twisting the material. “My lord.” This comes as an almost sob. 

Grabbing her by the shoulders, “Your skills in seduction are somewhat lacking,” he sneers at her. She’s young and frightened. Younger than his wife when they’d been wedded. “Men do not wish to see a woman crying. When next you plan to enter someone’s bed, be sure to smile.”

“How can I smile, my lord, when you are condemning my whole family to death with your refusal?” Her words gave him pause, Rhaegar waited for her to explain. A sharp, little thing she seemed to read it in his eyes. “I am yours to do with as you will, my lord. But should you choose to send me away before you depart…”

“What will you do for me?” Rhaegar asks. She is one of those unfortunate women stuck under negligent husbands and fathers. She may still be of use. “Have you been long in my uncle’s service?”

“No, my lord.” She wipes her tears away. “I am not in his service at all. I serve only you.”

“Do you now?” There is mocking edge to his inquiry. “Should I believe you?” As if to prove her point she makes to unbind the laces holding her dress up. From waist up she is bare, there is no mark on her skin of someone having claimed her, 

“Despite my circumstances, I am a free woman. It is for me to choose the one I serve.” There is surprise on her face when Rhaegar pulls the dress back in its place fastening the bindings. “I only ask that you allow me to remain by your side.”

“If I allow this, you must not ever break my trust.” Not that he has a lot of it. Rhaegar watches her nod. “Who knows what secrets that innocent face hides. “Can you read?” Again she nods. “Good.” He beckons her over and hold out a scroll that he’s picked up randomly. “Then I shall allow you to serve me thus.”

Her voice lilts, it is young and uncertain, just as her, but not unpleasant. Rhaegar bids her to seat back on her pillows and he takes a seat too. It is a report he needs not know. Naturally his mind wanders back to the court and his friend’s request. The Province shows signs of rebellion according to some. Rhaegar thinks on that. It is for this reason that it is he who has been sent here. If any plotting takes place, his uncle is sure to be in on it, and Rhaegar may put an end to it once he knows who is involved. Then he may return to his home.

Mayhap he will even take the little gift they’ve offered him. Rhaegar think with satisfaction of Elia’s rage should he bring back a mistress. Even better if she breed him a child. He may be rid of her then. He toys with the idea some more. If the woman proves herself worthy in her service, he will do more than that. Whatever her problems are, whatever has disrupted her life, he will take care of it. Her voice finds his ears again. It is quite nice. He leans back into the chair thinking of his friend’s words again. The memory stirs him.

_“You are my dearest friend,” the Emperor says mildly. “But it is not why I send you. I trust you to do what is best for our empire.” Hs stands. “Do this for me and when you return name whatever you wish and it is yours.”_

_“I have only one wish,” Rhaegar reminds him._

_Sighing the other man nods. “Ensure peace for my people, and I will ensure your peace.”_

It is this promise that has Rhaegar doing his best. After years and years he may be free of the lie he is living. 

The woman reads on, and it hits Rhaegar that he does not know what to call her. “By what name are you know?” An abrupt halt marks her acknowledgment of his question. 

“Lyanna,” she replies.


	3. frailty they name is woman

The crowd cheers, ever-thirsty for blood and gore; these people relish in the bloody feast before their eyes. Lyanna for her part is taut as a string, waiting for the panic to leave her. It doesn’t. How could it when Lord Galare has made sure to plant the seeds deep within her heart? “It seems both you and your brother will serve the cause,” he told her when he caught her alone in one of the halls.

Rhaegar holds his cup up and she fills it with trebling hands. Lyanna has learned quite a lot about this man in the time she’s sent with him. Not the least of which is that the games held in his honour do not delight him. If anything he seems bored with the whole procession. Lyanna wonders if she may persuade him to spare her brother. Right now Rhaegar has the power of life and death over every fighter in the pit.

Blood gushes out of a torn hand and the crowd lets out a roar. Red stains the sands to the delight of the onlookers. Lyanna looks away. She does not wish to watch this mockery of entertainment. “What are you doing?” Grazdan rasps when he notices. There is a fiendish quality to his smile. “Does the blood make you queasy? Look there, girl!”

“Uncle,” Rhaegar interrupts, voice as cold as a block of ice. “leave her. Come, Lyanna.” He holds his hand out. She feels compelled to take it. Rhaegar pulls her close him so that their whispers would remain just between the two of them. “You are not requested to watch if you do not wish. Just say the words.”

“I want to stay,” she says. Something like a shadow passes her master’s face and the hand holding hers tightens its grip. Lyanna lowers her eyes to the bloodstained sands once again. “I have to stay.” He lets her go as if he’s been burned by her words. 

“Very well.” And he allows her to retreat back once again.

Confusion sweeps over her, but Lyanna has little time to analyse his reaction. Brandon enters the arena. His feet are unsteady, and his opponent without mercy. Every slash elicits a gasp from Lyanna. He is her brother – despite his choices and her anger – and she cannot watch her own flesh and blood be cut into pieces without a knife plunging in her heart. It takes no more than twenty blows for her brother lose his sword and his hand. 

“Brandon,” Lyanna yells out, unable to stop herself. She wants to beg him to get up. But what can he do without his sword-hand? He’s already dead. And even if she knew a way for him to save himself the words freeze on her lips when Rhaegar’s face turns to her. The crowd demands blood, death, slaughter.

Standing to his feet, Rhaegar looks down at the two fighters, his face unreadable. Lyanna knows he’ll not be moved if she starts crying now, but the tears are already falling. His thumb holds a horizontal position, and they all wait with baited breath. They do not find it strange that he would intervene for this man. Lords and their flight of fancy. That must be what they think. Lyanna sees Rhaegar’s thumb go up. “Life!” he roars over the noisy crowd.

After that cries of appreciation go up for him. Lyanna can hardly believe it. She would see Brandon, but she may not leave Rhaegar’s side; besides father will take care of him.

For the first time they ride with the curtains drawn, and for the first time Rhaegar moves her to sit in his lap, and not next to him as she usually does. He dares not ask her anything, but Lyanna can see questions in his eyes. She does not answer.

When darkness falls, her clothes follow the sun – they have done so before, but only for his eyes and by his hands. The sky bears down on the earth. Rhaegar is what Lyanna thinks they call a patient partner. There is skill to his touch, yet not particular kindness. He treats her as if come morning she will no longer be of use to him – for all that she finds that she enjoys his touch.

Strangely enough, her heart squeezes at the thought. Her world now revolves around reading scrolls together with him and bringing him whatever information she can find. It won’t be long until his task is done. Has it really been half a year? It feels like a lifetime. Even the occasional sighting Brandon and her family stirs less than the feelings she gets by Rhaegar’s side.

His fingers draw a pattern upon her naked back when they have settled between the sheets. It seems Rhaegar can never quite shut his thoughts down. “If I asked you to do something for me, would you do it?” Lyanna nods. A crystal vial appears as if summoned by spell. “Drink this.”

The first taste is sweet, but the aftertaste is bitter. “What is this?” Lyanna asks after draining the potion.

A smile form on his lips, but it lacks humour. “Vengeance.”

On his wife, Lyanna knows. There is not much she knows about Elia Martell but that Rhaegar wants her removed from his life. “It tastes sweet.” She says nothing of the bitterness, suspecting that it would always be there, a shard of distrust.

“It always does,” he agrees, brushing his fingers through her hair. It is both strange and comforting. He does not demand her body again, placated instead by her companionship. There are times like these when Lyanna can almost think he holds her somewhere close to his heart. “Sleep, sweetling.”

“You must rest too.” He kisses her forehead and Lyanna frowns. She’s received all sorts of kisses from this man, on her cheek, on her forehead, on her shoulder, but never, not once has he kissed her lips. It makes her apprehensive. 

“Hush, little one. I am resting now.” But he does not sleep. Lyanna worries. She says nothing more however. Rhaegar clutches her tighter, and sleep overtakes her. “I am always resting with you.”


	4. let me be cruel

Gazdan brings Lyanna back to him. There is a large red mark on her face and her eyes are tear-filled. How like a woman to cry over her own folly. “Leave us,” he tells his uncle. What he wants to say is for her ears only. There are a thousand curses he could throw her way, a million charges, but he only manages this, “Why?” He catches her chin when she tries to look away. “Answer me, damn you!”

“My brother,” she says, trying to pull away. Rhaegar will have none of that. His hold grows firmer. “I wanted to save him. For once I wanted to stop him from doing something stupid.”

“Your brother,” he spits out. “Is that supposed to excuse your behaviour?” It is not so much her leaving that bothers him. But that she did so without a word. Like every other woman, only lies fall from her lips. Rhaegar looks at her. “Did you save him?”

“No.” Her answer brings a sort of perverse pleasure with it. “He never learned anything.” She’s told him of her brother, the irresponsible, hot-headed one. Rhaegar has known it was only a matter of time before he got himself killed. It is the same man he spared in the arena moons ago. “He survived the gladiators to die in a common, drunken brawl.” Ten fights in the pit and he dies covered in sludge. Rhaegar almost laughs at that.

“I trusted you to stay here until my return.” Her face is ashen. “Did I not say not to leave under any circumstances?” He takes one step closer and she one back. “There is not so very much to ask for, is it?” Her back hits the wall. Rhaegar‘s hand falls to her shoulder. He cannot help but notice she’s shivering. Good. His other hand holds a still bloody knife. “Surely, surely, you did not wait until my back was turned to run off, to expressly disobey me. I must have heard it wrong. Tell me you did not jeopardize the Empire for one man.” And her own position.

“He was my brother!” she screams at him, hands pushing against his chest.

“He was a drunken fool,” Rhaegar returns calmly. “And you an even bigger fool.” He strokes her abused cheek and wonders briefly who put the mark there. They will find themselves short of one hand. “I should just leave you here.” 

“Don’t. Please don’t.” She pleads with her eyes; eyes that he’s seen mist over with lust, eyes that he’s seen laughing, eyes that have shed tears, eyes that he’s been waking up to for almost a full year now. His heart advises understanding, his head demands he teach her a lesson. Rhaegar is frozen for a few seconds, looming over her as a marble statue. Does he forgive her? Blame her rashness on the moodiness of pregnant women?

His thumb brushes over a split lip. Talking has made the wound pull open. Red coats his skin. He remembers the light feeling in his chest when she told him of the babe – the maegi hadn’t lied about the potion. He recalls, distinctly so, all those times he doubted that she was capable of deceit and disobedience. He’s been proven wrong once more. “Why shouldn’t I?” 

Because his heart becomes lead at the though. Because he’s grown used to her – like breathing – and he does not wish to. Because – damn it all – if he says he forgives her than none can hold her disobedience against her. Again the question, does he forgive her?

As if she has been waiting for the question, the woman catches his face between cold hands. It’s sudden and heavy and not the most pleasant he’s ever had, but her lips collide with his, the metallic taste of blood and grief mingling. He could cut her throat now. The knife hangs heavy in his hand. He could punish her impertinence. There are other women to bear him children.

But she’s kissing him and she whispers foreign words such as ‘love’ and ‘affection’. Elia has said the same. And where has that landed him. Yet it gives him pause. Women and their tricks. But this one appeals to him. Should he believe a life, just this once? For her?

Suddenly, Elia stand before him. The knife is at her throat before he knows what he’s doing. She lets out a small gasp, and Lyanna stands before him again. He cleans away the blood oozing from her lower-lip. It’s a gentle swipe, almost loving in its manner. It’s by far the gentlest of touches he can manage in his current state. Forgive her, kill her? For a brief moment Elia’s image overlaps hers. Rhaegar stares down at her expanding waist, round with his child. His child. The knife falls. He lets the weapon clatter to the ground.

Her face relaxes. Lyanna tentatively brings an arm around his shoulder, then the other. He allows her to. “Lyanna.” And not Elia. She is Lyanna.

“I am not her, Rhaegar. I love you. I do.” She pulls his hand, the one not holding her, to her middle. “I am not her.”

Rhaegar nods. This has left him shaken. Women, they complicate matters. “They are all dead. The conspiracy has been eradicated.” He is tired, so very tired. 

“We leave for the Capital, then?” She is hopeful. He nods. Lyanna insists that he leave off writing to the Emperor. “There is time on the morrow, my lord.”

“Rhaegar,” he enunciates clearly. He is still angry – disappointed in the choice she made. But it is the past. And they must move forward. “You may use my name.”

“Rhaegar,” the name rolls off her lips. “The Empire can wait.” 

Unlike other times, he falls asleep first. He’s never been quite this comfortable with another person sharing his bed. Bizarre, that is the word he thinks fits best. Not unpleasant. Would It have been different had he met Lyanna before? 

What ifs, they do no good.

Now she is here because now if the right time for her to be here. The timing of the gods is the one that counts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's ambiguous, but the point is that Brandon return to is usual dealing and pays for it.
> 
> And Lyanna, well, according to the Roman law if a woman left her husband, if she was caught and brought back to him, he had every right to discard her and find a new wife. And Lyanna is not even legally his wife yet (remember, "usus"), so Rhaegar could have killed her and no one would have blinked.


	5. dreams may come

The Emperor looks strikingly like Rhaegar. They share the undiluted blood of Valyria. But there is something decidedly colder about their fair ruler. Lyanna is glad for the fact that she has to keep fifty paces away from him. He unnerves her.

“And it ends here?” The question startles the heavily pregnant woman. She watches the father of her child nod, explaining that those who planned a betrayal are no longer among the living. The Emperor smiles. Lyanna shivers. “I have promised you a reward.” Rhaegar keeps silent. “Name your wish.”

“I want de jure separation from Elia Martell of House Martell.” There is no hesitation there. Lyanna wonders how long he’s been waiting to say it.

“On what grounds?” Though it matters little now that the Emperor’s mind has been made up. Rhaegar might as well say that he has grown tired of his first wife. Her family will need reasons though.

“De facto our separation has taken place after the death of our only child, Rhaenys. She gives me no more children and I have need of heirs. The woman is barren.” And somehow it sounds like the truth. Lyanna holds her breathe, waiting for the verdict. 

“I see you’ve wasted little time in finding a suitable replacement. Very well.” A servant hands Rhaegar a document, neatly wrapped in red string. Heart beating wildly, Lyanna fists her hands in the skirts of her dress. “Consider yourself free of her, my friend.”

Climbing down from his throne, the Emperor glides over the marble stairs. He reaches out for Rhaegar and surprisingly enough Rhaegar accepts the invasion of his private space. There is an easy camaraderie between the two of them. “I wish you every happiness. May she bring warriors aplenty.” He looks at Lyanna now. “Come closer, girl.”

Lyanna follows the instructions. She bows and stares at the ground. The Emperor inspects her closely. She does not like the way his eyes linger over her. “Look at me,” the man orders. She does, and is caught in the snare of a metaphorical – but quite real too – serpent. “Yes, I think I understand.” Suddenly his lips are on hers. Lyanna instinctively draws back, only Rhaegar’s arm at her back holding her from falling. “I definitely understand,” the offender laughs. “Be on your way then, my man. I am sure you must be anxious to bring your new wife to her home.”

“Your Highness is gracious.” But his hand presses firmly into her back. Lyanna knows the world to be half-truths. She is avenged by subtly insulted response. “We shall retreat.”

They are in the palanquin when she decides it is time to pose her question. “What will become of Elia?” Elia, Elia. Elia who Rhaegar thought he loved, Elia who mothered her brother’s daughter. Elia who deceived him from the moment they met. 

“It does not concern you,” Rhaegar tells her softly. “You needn’t worry about such things.” He kisses her forehead. “Elia will get exactly what she deserves.”

What does she deserve? Lyanna think of death, and the blood in her veins turns to ice. They are talking about a woman who has lost her child. If she lost her babe, Lyanna doesn’t think she would ever, ever survive it. “You should have told the Emperor.”

“Should I have?” His voice grows cold, his touch harsh. “Tell him that I’ve been a fool? Tell him my own wife though me idiotic enough to not question the early arrival of our child? Or the fact that she looked like my goodbrother?” 

And if her child looks like her? “What of our own child? Do you doubt you’ve fathered him?” Lyanna has taken to calling the babe a he. Rhaegar insists it is a she. Perhaps he craves for that daughter still – whether blood tied them or not, she was still his daughter.

“Then he or she will be the joy of my life. I do doubt you in this.” No, only whether she tells him the truth when she goes out for a walk. Lyanna knows that Rhaegar loves her – in his own way – and she knows he trust her – somewhat – but not completely. She doesn’t think he can trust anyone completely.

Elia does pay, it turns out, in a gruesome way. Her brother is not spared either. Only the wife remains, with her daughters in tow. The news comes when Lyanna is in the birthing chambers. She does not understand that wicked thrill that echoes through her. It is preposterous. But not undeserved, her mind whispers, and the dark thought scares her.

Jaehaerys comes with the world with no breath. And thus Lyanna pays too – with perhaps half the years in her life, for the scare must have taken at least that many. But the gods must be merciful because death’s grip eases just as a scream rips from her throat. Jaehaerys is bloody and small. Hardly a warrior. Lyanna gathers him in her arms as soon as they’ve cleaned him. She never wants to let him go. If only she were given privacy. Are they not done with the cleaning yet? 

Rhaegar is less patient than her. He sweeps in the rooms, dismissing the servants. He looks with curiosity at the child in her arms. He is the spitting-image of his father. Lyanna cradles the boy to her chest, smiling happily. “You have an heir, my lord.”

“Is it too early to say I am proud of both of you?” Perchance they told him his son fought tooth and nail for his right at life. He avoids her eyes, opting to observe the babe. The other confession hangs between them. Lyanna accepts the silence for what it is. 

Their son finds his way out of her arms to those of Rhaegar’s. The sight warms her heart, and she should take all the warmth she may. Lyanna does not know it, nor does Rhaegar, but the starts are shifting ever so slowly – empires have fallen for less. Fate’s fingers pull at the cord. The string grows taut. Will it break? Will it not?

Little Jaehaerys mewls, signalling that he is ready to receive nourishment.


	6. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

When war claims the realm, Lyanna does not find it surprising that they call upon Rhaegar. He is as skilled a warrior as he is a politician. But even he may not be able to save them now. The path they thread is one that cannot be abandoned. All his wit and cunning are poured into this attempt, but Lyanna can see this tree bears no fruits.

“I leave with the rising sun,” he tells her after Jaehaerys is taken to bed. Lyanna covers their son, nodding to her husband’s whisper. She watches Rhaegar kiss the boy’s forehead. A semblance of normality.

“Rest awhile,” she tells him in an equally quiet voice. The boy sleeps well through the night, and is unlikely to wake before the sun’s up in the sky. The hours are scarce. They exit together, Lyanna’s hand falling around his arm by habit. She takes whatever comfort she can in the heat of his skin underneath her palm, until the familiarity of their bedroom surrounds them.

“I do not crave sleep.” The words hang between them. A soft breeze flows by through an open window. Rhaegar’s head lowers until their mouths are almost touching. Instinctively Lyanna rises up to meet him. The hands that grab her shoulders hold her back. “I seek blessings. Your blessings.”

It hits her that he might not come back. Even atop that beast of his, which ails; who is to say an arrow won’t hit its mark. Desperate hands tug at him. It scares her, this uncertainty that has taken root within her bosom. “Come back to me.” Or else she’ll refuse to give him her blessings. 

“Under my shield or on it.” His promise further stirs the storm brewing. Rhaegar pulls apart the girdle tied around her middle. For a few hours the world is reduced to the four walls and the crisp linens that are slowly getting drenched. 

The messenger comes in the middle of the night. Rhaegar does not sleep. He has expected this. But the news the fresh-faced youth discloses shakes him to the core. Gently, he shakes Lyanna awake. Their chance of winning is slim to none. “They are at the gates.” In truth the gates are splinters by now.

A rasp leaves her lips. She asks what can be done. “If we leave now,” she tries to convince him, fingers threading into the material of his clothing. 

He considers it for a moment. Shame swells in his chest. Rhaegar shakes his head. “They are too many, and we have too few soldiers left.” The dragons have been sickening for too long a time to be of real use. Lyanna knows it; all the same he is glad she does not speak the words.

“Then there is nothing else for it, my love.” Lyanna leans on her side, searching for something. She holds up a knife of dark steel. “It would be better if I wait for him there. Our son will not understand if we send him first.” 

Placing the weapon in his hand, Lyanna allows the sheet to slip from around her, leaving her chest exposed. He can see her struggling to breathe. The boy outside waits for Rhaegar to say his farewells. His hand trembles. He’ll die out there. And he refuses to leave Lyanna or his son to those barbarians. Still his fingers grip the handle too tightly. There is no need to cause her pain.

Blade meets flesh as he takes her mouth with his. It is quick, but bloody. Red smears on the sheets and on his garments. Rhaegar crushed her body to his, crying out with her as if the knife pierces him also. She struggles in his hold, reflexively trying to escape the pain. Something wet slides against his cheek when her heart stops beating. It has been minutes, but it feels like a lifetime to him. For the last time he places a kiss on her forehead.

Sliding her cooling body under the sheets, Rhaegar steals to his son’s rooms. The messenger impatiently taps on the door, calling him. Plunging the knife is not made easier by the child’s unawareness. Somehow Rhaegar thinks it should have been easier. He takes the boy to Lyanna and sets him in his mother’s arms.

The doors open with a bang. “We must leave now!” the young man says, but stops upon the sight before him. His face pales. “We must leave,” he repeats without the earlier fire.

“I know,” Rhaegar says.

He mounts his dragon, petting the scales. The beast is grieving. For itself? For its master? For the world? It can barely fly now. Rhaegar asks the gods for strength when he reaches what is left of the army. He looks at the pitiful wretches. “You can run,” he tells them, voice clear and strong despite the broken heart hidden away inside the cage of his ribs. “You can hide. You’ll live a day longer. Maybe two. Let’s say a week.” The men look confused. “But they will hunt you, and they will find you; and you will die, tonight, tomorrow, it makes no difference in the when. The how matters more. Do you choose to die as cowards? Or do you choose to die free men?” He draws his sword. “Let them taste our steel and learn what freedom is.”

A cheer of approval goes up in the sky. It is not a cry of victory. But men who are already dead have nothing left to fear.   
The fight goes as all fights do. There is blood aplenty, and death touches all the men of the field. Some it takes, some it doesn’t. Rhaegar only makes sure he goes. For what else could his wish be when he fights like a madman?

Skilled swords cross on that field. Men of might fall under enemy blows. The city wails under flame and violence, and it crumbles under its own vanity.

Rhaegar feels a sharp pain. He looks down. Two arrows have pierced through his hastily tied armour. He brings his sword down, cutting off a head. A third arrow strikes, and another enemy falls. But he is not made of steel. When his knee is injured, Rhaegar can be naught but kneel. And loss of blood makes him dizzy.

The sun is rising. He looks up. Lyanna stands before him, her hand outstretched. She looks happy; Jaehaerys is beside her. Rhaegar reaches out for her.

A head flies off.

**Author's Note:**

> I have written that Lyanna must stay a year with this potential lover. According to the Roman Law a woman could become the wife of a man if she spent a year with him - it was called "usus". After that point she was considered his wife and the man could divorce without causing too much of a ruckus, thus emancipating her.
> 
> Bradon's little stint saw him divested of his freedom. Here it is temporary, but to the Roman it was permanent. You will see what happens to him.
> 
> That's all I have to say for now.


End file.
